


A Thousand Words Can Paint A Picture (but that doesn't matter if no ones here to see it)

by CoffeeOnRainyDays



Category: The Martian (2015), The Martian - All Media Types, The Martian - Andy Weir
Genre: Angst, Bye?, Close to Home is one of my favorite fics, Depends on your view, Depersonalization/Derealization Disorder, Drug Use, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, For Science!, Gen, Go check them out, Hallucinations, How Do I Tag, I Made Myself Cry, I Tried, I don't know what I'm doing, I don't know what to do now, I don't want to hurt anyone with this story, I got the motivation to write this from Glowstick, I might change everything later, I occasionally write poetry, I was very late in joining the wonderful world of fanfiction so I'm making up for it. Someway., I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm not good with these kinds of things, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Isolation, Know your limits and respect them, Kudos and Comments help motivate people!!!, Loneliness, My First Work in This Fandom, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Recreational Drug Use, Science Experiments, Self-Doubt, Self-Harm, Self-Indulgent, Slow To Update, Suicidal Thoughts, Tags May Change, The rare words are very... sad and happyish, There will be some dark stuff ahead, They are awesome at writing, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, enjoy, i think, i worked hard on this, i wrote this instead of doing homework, i'll stop now, ill organize the tags later, im really tired, just seems accurate enough to not question it, long title, might change it, negative thinking, not accurate science, please enjoy, rare words, so watch out, take care of yourself, thank you!!!, we don't do accurate here, we ruin it with our dirt and tears
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2020-10-12 03:56:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20557838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeOnRainyDays/pseuds/CoffeeOnRainyDays
Summary: “...Mark Watney is dead. When a storm forces the Ares 3 mission to make an emergency evacuation, the botanist was hit by debris which kills him instantly. The world will mourn and we at NASA will continue to improve and advance our technology to minimize the amount of risk our astronauts face in space. What happened was an unfortunate accident and we hope to avoid another event...”Meanwhile, approximately 225 million kilometers away, Mark Watney, very not dead and very much alive, is waiting on a planet of rust for a rescue that might not even come but we don’t think about that because it will come. (Right?)Four years is a long time away though. At least there’s a bunch of mixtapes to listen to when he gets bored. Disco, baby!Yay…I’m going to die.(On Hiatus as of right now because I need to fix up the plot and my life but I ran out of duck tape so yeah, sorry about that, but I promise to come back with a working compass, alright?)





	1. Alarm Clock

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t own anything, don’t sue me. And Please, this is going to deal with a lot of angst(death, self-harm, that sorta thing) so if any of that triggers you, PLEASE DON'T READ. Take care of yourself. that's the most important thing here.

Absquatulate (v.) To leave without saying goodbye

Sol 6

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

I groan, my head already pounding at the sound of the alarm. Five more minutes.

_ Beep. Beep. Beep._

My side hurts. Did I sleep on something? I don’t remember bringing anything to bed, let alone something that could stab me in the side that sharply. There’s a kink in my neck too. Ow.

_ Beep. Beep. Beep._

_ Why the fuck is the alarm so loud?? Why hasn’t anyone… Oh._

_ Beep. Beep. Beep._

_ You’re on Mars, idiot._

The red dirt is the first thing I see, though it’s dark from where I’m lying face down. I try to roll over, gasping as the pain in my side spikes.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. _

That oxygen alarm is getting really annoying. And there’s an antenna in my side so that’s pretty annoying too. At least I think it’s an antenna. Moving my head around hurts so I only got a glance.

Whiplash is a bitch. I think it’s whiplash. It’s hard to concentrate and remember things. Like how I got here.

I know there was a storm and I vaguely know that something hit me. And that something hurt. A lot. Like an antenna in my side, for example.

_ Well, you trained for this, patch it up._

I pull the antenna out before I could hesitate.

A little pain, screaming, and resin later, I fix up the suit and boom! Good as new. Except for the hole in my side that’s slowly leaking blood and the pure oxygen in my suit. The whole reason the alarm is-

_Beep. Beep. Beep. _

I need to get to the HAB.

My hands shake as they reach for the partly destroyed control panel on my suit. Somethings wrong. Well, more wrong then it already is.

“_Guys? Where are you?_” I ask over the comm, “_I need help getting back to the Hab. Are you really going to leave me out here?” _

Static.

Maybe the comm’s broken?

“_Making me get up when I have a hole in my side is low, even for you guys._” I joke, forcing a weak grin. I wait for a moment to see if they’ll respond.

More static.

_What if the HAB is destroyed? What if the MAV tipped over? What if everyone is injured, half-buried in the sand like me, or worse?_

I swallow down my worries and nausea. They could be in the HAB. The comms are just broken and we did make it through the storm. They could be safe and waiting for me to come. Look on the bright side, Watney.

_What if, What if, What if…_

I force myself to my feet, gasping again at the pain it causes me. It’s like I’m getting stabbed all over again. Red dust dances from where I kicked it.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. _

The alarm is annoying, but now it has an underlying tone of _something’s wrong, right over there. Don’t believe me? Go on, check. Wake up and go see what’s wrong._

I make my way up a hill, tripping and dripping more blood from the wound. Right foot, then left, don’t focus on the pain. Right, left, right, left, and oh there’s the HAB. It looks fine but we’ll have to double-check and the MAV…

Fuck. The MAV is gone.

_The MAV is gone._

Maybe it got blown away? They wouldn’t- Don’t kid yourself, Watney. You’re dead. To them at least. And you will be soon if you don’t fucking move!

No… No no no no _**no!**_ They’re waiting in the HAB. The MAV is still there, the oxygen is making me hallucinate. This is just a dream and I’ll wake up and the crew will be there and _everything is okay, they didn’t leave you. **It isn’t real!**_

**IT IS!!!**

…

_I’m dead… _

_… I don’t want to die out here. _

** _Then move. _ **

_Beep. Beep. Beep. _

The oxygen alarm forces me to walk away.

The HAB is quiet and empty when I arrive. I take off my helmet. Their coffee cups are still there and for a moment I can imagine that they’re just out getting samples, that they’re coming back.

I pretend it’s Beck healing me when I actually do move to patch myself up. It makes the empty places where they should have been even more prominent. The pain helps with distracting me. I tell myself the tears are from the stitches.

Afterword, I sit down and stare unseeing at the coffee cups.

I’m alone, on a planet that can’t grow food and looks the same no matter where you are. I’m alone in an empty HAB that wasn’t supposed to be empty for the two months we would stay here. I’m the only life on a lifeless planet that I know of. No one knows I’m alive, and I’m going to be alone for the next four years if I can stay alive that long.

If I want to stay alive for that long.

The beeping has stopped, but it still rings in my ears.

Wake up, Watney. Or do you want to sleep?

* * *

Kenopsia (n.) The eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that’s usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet


	2. Rusted Shovel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first log entries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey.
> 
> So I know I said I was going to get this out much early, but that was a lie. Don't expect another chapter for at least a month. I'll try to get better. Sorry.

Rufescent (adj.) Somewhat reddish

+

Effervescence (n.) bubbles in a liquid

* * *

**Log Entry: Sol 7**

Alright. So good news (debatable), I’m not dead!!! After a short nap and snack, I decided not to die because, hey, sooner or later NASA’s going to realize some shit is up. (please be sooner) So everything isn’t as hopeless as yesterday. Still sucks though.

Physically, I’m all right, if you count getting stabbed in the side all right. I have a minor concussion and some whiplash. Nothing major.

I checked on supplies today. I have vitamins but it’s the food I’m worried about. I won’t have enough to last four years. So that is Problem A in the alphabet of everything that can kill me. I also have some Vicodin and Morphine, in case of extreme pain and... yeah.

Other then that, the water reclaimer and oxygenator are working fine but I’m not sure how long that will last.

Outside isn’t as lucky...

The Hab is still intact and the solar cells are alright, though a bit dusty, so I’ll get those brushed up tomorrow. Both the rovers are fine except they’re turned on their side and upside down. That’s gonna be fun.

On the bad side, I have no communications and the MAV is gone, of course.

Which brings me to a very important point if the crew is reading this: _this is not your fault._ You had no idea that I would survive the ridiculous events that have occurred and the even more ridiculous events that led to me being alive. You simply did what was the best viable option at the time. I was dead to your knowledge and the MAV was tipping and it wouldn’t have been any good if you all got stranded here along with me. I repeat: _it wasn’t your fault._

Still, I wonder when this will be found, or if it will be found at all. Maybe I’ll leave them here when I get back to earth. Because I will get to earth. I will get home.

If you aren’t understanding any of this, nameless techie, then I guess I should explain exactly how this all started...

**Log Entry: Sol 11**

I figured out a plan! I, Mark Watney, the best botanist on the planet (see what I did there? And fuck you, Martinez, botany is a real science!)have decided to grow potatoes on a planet that can’t grow potatoes.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, it’s impossible but it actually isn’t, just improbable. Like, the chances are almost 0. Still a chance though and I’ll take whatever I can get.

Yes, nameless techie in the back row? How exactly am I going to do this? Well, it’s pretty simple.

I’m going to science the shit out of this.

...

Alright, here’s what I’m actually going to do.

First, I’m going to bring a bunch of Mars dirt into the Hab. Then, I’ll sprinkle in a little bit of earth dirt into it like a magical plant fairy. And finally the best part! The smelliest, dirtiest part of the whole thing- shit.

Yeah, I think I might throw up.

Luckily, we don’t have to do that part yet! We have to shovel in the dirt first. I plan on covering almost every surface available to get the most food I can.

We were actually supposed to have the potatoes for thanksgiving here. I miss the crew. As annoying as they were, we were a family... I wonder how my parents are doing. They probably got the news that I’m ‘dead’ by now. Sweet Jesus, it’s going to be rough four years for everyone.

Anyway, continuing on, I have to go shovel some dirt into here. Lots and lots and lots of dirt. I’ll have to stop to infect it with bacteria and shit(blah) every so often. I will take breaks in digging, because of the wound in my side, but I’ll try to do the most I can.

**Log Entry: Sol 13**

I feel dead inside.

So far, everything is going great. It’s been a week since everything fucked up and I’m hoping nothing else will fuck up in the time being.

My back hurts. And my legs. Everywhere really. I took some Vicodin and it helped somewhat.

I hate shoveling dirt. I hate dirt.

_It’s only been two sols!!!_

I need more coffee.

I got about 1/4 of dirt inside. Just a couple of more weeks and then my garden will start to grow. Hell yeah, fear my botany powers!

** Log Entry: Sol 16 **

I’m getting really bored.

One can only shovel so much dirt before one tires of it. I reached my limit on day one. I’m going to have to fertilize the soil again but I think I’ll look through the crew's stuff first. I know it’s personal but you all left me here so it’s fair game. And I don’t want to get all close and personal with my own waste yet so...

Small side note: I removed my stitches and everything seems good so far. No signs of infection but I’m not out of the woods yet. I will continue to keep an eye on it.

**Log Entry: Sol 16(2)**

You all have nothing for me. Except for Miss Johanssen, thank you for the computers and some decent games, as old as they are. But overall, nothing.

And Lewis... why? Why disco?

**Log Entry: Sol 20**

The Hab is now mostly dirt. I’ve managed to fertilize some of the soil and threw up like ten times. Unfortunately, I still have more to do before I can stop. Ugh.

I have an idea for water. I don’t like it, you won’t like it, it’s an entirely dangerous situation I shouldn’t put myself in because fire plus space equals certain death but I can’t think of another way.

Now, since NASA wants to avoid death, almost nothing here is flammable. Except for one thing. I never thought I was gonna say this but... Thank you, Martinez.

Now I’ve got to throw up again.

So Martinez is religious and snuck a small little cross made of wood to pray every night. I would sometimes make fun of him for it (_ just sometimes though, I’m not a bully!)_ for believing there was such a thing because I am a man of science.

And now this thing might save my life.

Maybe there is a God out there.

Either way, dying in an explosion is less painful and cooler-looking than dying from dehydration/starvation. I’m not going to implement the plan yet, I still have a lot of dirt to bring in. For now, I get a full meal.

**Log Entry: Sol 24**

How many times have I said dirt in the past logs?

I. Am. Sick. Of. It.

I never thought I would hate the ground, being a fucking botanist, but here I stand.

I’m taking a break. I might finish the science experiments we were supposed to do. Except this time, I’m throwing all the safety handbooks away. No more 6-centimeter bullshit. Let’s dig deeper. But not yet, I’m not going to touch a shovel for another week.

On an unrelated note, I built a fort.

Is it childish? Yes.

Is it stupid? Probably.

Do you think I care? You bet your ass I don’t.

I can do whatever I want. There’s no one here to stop me.

...

I think that’s a bad thing.

I’m still not touching Beck’s medical journals though.

I am fine and I’ll be fine.

**Log Entry: Sol 27**

“Houston, this is Watney, happy to report that the potatoes have landed and should be growing shortly, over.”

Yeah, that’s right, I planted the first few potatoes today. And I finished digging, hallelujah.

Can I get a wahoo?

Wahoo!

Another full meal today.

“Celebrate good times, come on!”

Fuck you, Lewis.

**Log Entry: Sol 30**

We were supposed to leave today...

There was a small dust storm. I’ll need to dust the solar cells off.

I tried not to flinch when I heard the rocks bounce off the Hab outside.

**Log Entry: Sol 32**

I am not okay.

I haven’t gotten a lot of sleep.

At all really since the incident that got me stranded here.

Is that why I’m having hallucinations?

I swear I saw Martinez just a second ago.

I’m still not going to read Beck’s journals.

I’m _fine._

**Log Entry: Sol 33**

I keep seeing everyone’s faces. In the swirl of the coffee, the endless dust around the Hab, the stars above. I can hear them too.

Sometimes I try to form their shapes in the constellations. It makes me feel like I’m not alone sometimes. Other times the exact opposite, more aware of the empty spot beside me.

.....

What am I going to do without you guys? I’m a social butterfly, I _need_ to be around people. I want someone alive to talk to. Other than myself, of course. I’m a living creature so I’m alive.

Right?

**Log Entry: Sol 34**

So.

Life is going good.

Big mental breakdown the other day (sol?), which wasn’t fun but I finally got to sleep for a while afterward. Ugh, feelings.

I’m doing my suicidal plan for water today so this very well might be my last log.

So...

Trying not to focus too much on that.

I guess goodbyes are in order, in case...

Mom, Dad,

Thank you for everything you’ve done. You did an amazing job raising the little hellspawn that’s me. I mean, I got to _space_, I got to _Mars_. A lot of it is thanks to you. I love you. Can’t get any more simple than that. You’re the best people in my life.

Love, your little pickle.

To everyone who’s worked at NASA, thank you for letting me get here and keep up the good work. I owe you all a drink.

From, the best astronaut since Neil Armstrong.

To the crew, man I love you guys.

Vogel, did I ever mention I love your accent? It’s so smooth, like melted chocolate. It matches your soul. Big, tuff, scary dude on the outside, secret marshmallow and teddy bear on the inside. I’ll miss your hugs.

Beck, Becky, Bucky! Did you propose to Johanssen yet?!?! We all know you were secretly fucking. And let me say, you two would make some cute babies.

Johanssen, some goes to you. If Beck has his tail between his legs, you better propose to him and kick his ass for me. You’re the queen. Never forget that.

Other than that, I have nothing to say to you two. You’re just sooooooooo boring! All you do is talk, talk, talk about weird things like what the world will be like in 3,000 years or why we feel the things we feel. Not that I paid attention or anything.

Martinez, my man, my bro, my dork. Are your jokes still as bad as Lewis’s music taste? Double burn! I know you’re the best pilot NASA’s ever had but you totally miss the mark in the humor. I’m glad to have taken you under my wing, young grasshopper, even though you learned virtually nothing.

Commander Lewis, I know you and several others will want to kick my ass for these but I think it should be taken into account that I am the favorite of the group and you all love me too much to kill me. I still hate your disco music. I love you but god, your ears need to get checked.

So yeah. You’re the best crew I could ever ask for. And if I die, don’t hang up on it. Just move on and smile. The world is filled with too many good things to be sad.

God, that was sappy. I sound like a... a fucking schoolgirl or something. Yeah, don’t want to do that again. Blah, my teeth are rotting.

And to my plants, I’m proud of you, little dudes. Thanks for growing when I wanted you to grow.

Alright, off to try to not explode the Hab. Either way, it’s going to be awesome. Wish me luck!

**Log Entry: Sol 34(2)**

Holy shit, I didn’t die. I mean, I’m very confident in my napkin math but it actually worked! I get to live another day. And I created water, like that power I never used in D&D. I know, I was a nerd. Still am actually.

Looks like things are looking up.

**Log Entry: Sol 37**

I am fucked, oh, so very fucked, I’m gonna die!

I am writing this from the rover because the Hab has turned into a bomb. Yeah, very big climb in events. Things are definitely not looking up.

How I didn’t notice I was getting more oxygen is beyond me.

Heh. Funny. I’m might die in a fiery explosion. Again.

So I haven’t been burning all the released hydrogen to make my water. It’s mixed in with the oxygen and is just waiting for a tiny spark so it can light the place up and go boom.

Fucking chemistry.

**Log Entry: Sol 38**

Maybe the Hab would have exploded and I wouldn’t have had to do anything.

**Log Entry: Sol 38(2)**

I got a plan, dangerous but what about any of this isn’t?

**Log Entry: Sol 39**

So it kinda exploded.

I’m still alive though, so that’s like a double win, right?

Fuck you, Mars. I’m gonna get through this and I hope you explode instead.

**Log Entry: Sol 40**

I’m sorry, please don’t kill me.

* * *

Pareidolia (n.) the instinct to seek familiar forms in disordered images like clouds or constellations; the perception of random stimulus as significant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you think? It's not the best but I have a somewhat plan for what the tone is going to be for the next few chapters.
> 
> And if the hallucinations seem a little early, I wanted to follow the stages of grief. Because it's like the opposite? He realizes he's dead to the world so how would he feel about that? And I tried to sound sciency to myself and convince myself that the subconscious makes the hallucinations because it doesn't realize the crew is gone until the day they were supposed to leave. Like, "Wait, something's wrong. Where's the crew? Weren't we supposed to leave today? Omg, what is going on? I miss them, let's see them again." or something like that. Yeah, the science is not going to be accurate.  
At all probably.  
If Mark sounds insane at all, it's the shock. He'll get a little better once he's fully out of it before the effects of prolonged isolation come a-knocking.
> 
> I'm sorry I didn't get this out sooner. I hope you have a wonderful day, darlings!  
*flounces out to work on chapter 3*


	3. Radio Signals

Vorfreude (n.) The joyful, intense anticipation that comes from imagining future pleasures

* * *

_ Johnson Space Center _

Teddy Sanders wasn’t a man to hesitate. He took a problem, considered all possible options, and did what he thought was best. Venkat Kapoor often admired that quality but as of right now he hated it.

“A year?” Venkat felt his frustration bleed into his words. “We can’t wait a year for this!”

“Why not?”

Dear God. “We need to know what survived the storm, for another mission. We need to see what supplies are salvageable and continue-”

Teddy shook his head. “No. The press isn’t worth it. I’m sorry but reminding them of our dead astronaut isn’t worth it. Today’s memorial gave people closure.”

“What if we brought his body back? In a year, no one will care but people care right now. The press would love that. ‘Bring Him Home’.” He persisted.

Teddy sighed but thought about it for a moment.

“I’m sorry, but no.”

“But-”

“No.”

**Log Entry: Sol 46**

Merry Christmas, everyone!

From some extremely mind-numbing calculation, I determined that it is now Christmas Eve. And in the Watney family, Christmas is the single most important holiday. (Even topping my birthday -_-)

We have the usual traditions, dinner prepared at the crack of dawn, a tree covered in streamers and ornaments (literally, it’s just a blob of color and lights), hot chocolate that was sent directly from heaven. We also get to open a present before we go to bed. I tried to stay up once to catch Santa only to find my dad eating the cookies we left out. I got 5 cookies to go back to sleep and not mention anything the next morning.

We were going to send videos back home for our Space Christmas. Say hi to the family, the normal thing. But I can’t do that. Since I’m not on the Hermes.

Screw that, it’s Christmas, I’ll celebrate anyway instead of being a mopey duck.

I found some elastic hair tie thingys, I don’t know. (How do those even work? Like, I know women use it to put their hair up but how? How do you do that, ladies? _ How _?) I put them on my potato plants. Now I have an army of Christmas trees. Wha ha ha ha ha! Better watch out, Earth. I have much better trees than you.

I also have presents! I have to say, I feel pretty awesome with a ‘Spaces Best Astronaut’ on it. Nothing more soothing than a nice cup of hot cocoa (coffee).

Anyway, I think it’s off to bed now. Santa won’t come if you’re awake.

Maybe he’ll get me a ride home.

**Log Entry: Sol 50**

So far, my time on Mars has consisted of good days and bad days. (I’m not gonna call them sols, it sounds like spooky wooky spirits are coming out to get me)

Today is an ish day. Not really good but not bad either. I’ve grown… bored. That’s the best way to put it.

Just, there’s nothing to _ do _and I’ve gotten tired of twiddling my thumbs and waiting for something catastrophic to happen.

So I’m stuck talking to you, faceless techie. Quite a thrilling experience.

…

…

…

Fine. I’ll go check on the plants. But I’m going to pout the whole time. See this? This is the face of suffering. How dare you let me suffer like this.

**Log Entry; Sol 52**

I’ve done about 5 things in the past 2 days.

#1 - nothing.

#2 - I named the plants. There’s my crew, my parents, Bob, Rob, Carl, Bob Jr., and little T. Watney Jr. is all the way in the back. He doesn’t look like much but I secretly think his potatoes will be the largest.

#3 - I started hearing voices again. And other noises. Sometimes my crew is laughing. Other times there’s a high pitched whine that grates on my ears. Like nails on a chalkboard but worse. It’s only happened once or twice and there’s nothing wrong with any of the equipment so I think I’m good.

#4 - I started talking to myself and the newly named plants. I know, it’s a step forward into insanity, but it gets really quiet in here and I _ cannot _ listen to anymore disco. Besides, I’ll need to keep my voice if I’m going to talk to NASA. Which leads me to…

#5 - MY FANTASTIC IDEA!!! I had completely forgotten about _ Pathfinder _! NASA had lost contact with it in 1997, but when I get it up and running again, I can communicate with them! I’m sure it won’t be too complicated. As the engineer of the crew, fixing things is my job! (besides botany) God, I’m so excited!!! ROAD TRIP!!!

**Log Entry: Sol 57**

The rover mods are going great. I’ve managed to expand the battery life. You know that feeling when you have 100% on your phone? This was ten times better. I’m actually doing it! I’m going to go on a test drive in a little bit. Sirius I. I mean, the rovers look like dogs, okay!?

There is one small problem. Heating. The rover does have a heater but to get maximum power I have to turn it off. I’ve decided to wear as many layers as I can to combat it.

I feel like a kid again, with mom wrapping me up to protect me from the November weather.

I can’t wait to talk to them again, even if there’s a huge message delay because of the sucky WIFI here.

**Log Entry: Sol 59**

Yep, no thank you, I think the fuck not.

Cold. Tch. An understatement to the hell of no warmth.

I was frozen. I couldn’t feel anything.

New plan.

How does dangerous radiation sound? Onto test drive #2, Sirius II!

**Log Entry: Sol 64**

The RTG works!

A little too well.

I went from frozen popsicle to burnt marshmallow on fire.

But it works!

**Log Entry: Log 65**

I spat into the dirt and declared myself God. Potato God. One small spud for me, one giant spud for myself. The first harvest is ready.

I wish I could say something cool happened. I wish I could say they have weird leaves. I wish I could say they were purple or red. I really wish I could.

I can say that I have potatoes.

Hallelujah for not starving!

Still, some science takes longer for there to be any noticeable changes. I’ll keep one for future research. If I get hallucination’s from eating this, it’s all for science.

The solar panels are good to go, 34 on their thrones and 16 waiting in the car. Everything’s going well so far. I’ve been a busy productive little astronaut.

It’s been over twice my intended stay, longer than anyone else. Man, the fee is going to be through the roof. Better get out of here.

I have a small green flag that the RTG had so no one would get near it. It’s not very threatening. I think I’ll leave it with my potatoes. A formal declaration that it’s mine. It’s cool.

Anyway, see ya later! I have people to talk to.

**Log Entry: Sol 70**

I wonder what’s NASA is going to say. They better come up with a good-ass apology.

“We’re sorry, King Watney. Please take this large compensation. You have full access to everything now. If you want something, just call. We’ll do everything to make your life comfortable. We don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

Aah, that sounds nice.

**Audio Clip: Sol 71**

“~ We’re going on a trip, a road trip, this is it, withouuut the road, I’m getting bored~”

**Audio Clip: Sol 74**

“I didn’t want to do this but… God, it feels so weird just talking to myself. Knowing there’s no one listening. I guess talking to a camera feels a little better but it’s not a _ human. _

I’m feeling really scared. 

It’s just so damn _ lonely _ here.

I keep imagining being back home, doing normal mundane things. Going to the store, playing video games with the crew and some of the NASA employees, listening to my _ own goddamn music. _ You can’t do that here.

You can’t do anything normal on Mars.

Nothing. There’s nothing.

** _I FUCKING HATE IT!_ **

** _There’s nothing to do, I can’t do anything, there’s no one here to make jokes with or just talk to and it feels like I’m losing my MIND and this GODDAMN PLANET JUST KEEPS ON LAUGHING AT ME AND I FUCKING HATE YOU, MARS, I HATE YOU!!!_ **

** _I hate you._ **

** _So much._ **

_ There’s just this… void here. I’m trying to ignore it _ ** _but…_ **

Where did everyone go? Why am ** _I _ **alone here, on this goddamn--

…

…

…

Never mind, this isn’t helping.”

**Log Entry: Sol 76**

I moped for a little but everything’s better now. Yeah, definitely. Anyhow, let’s just ignore the other day. I wasn’t exactly feeling myself.

Only 5 more days until I reach _ Pathfinder. _

So……… close…….. yet…. so…………….. far……….

**Log Entry: Sol 81**

I found a rock. Crazy, right?

It’s grey, pyramid-like, and has these little red circles on one face that look like eyes.

I’m putting it on my dashboard.

I named it Sir Rocky Terrain. No, you don’t understand.

_ Sir Rocky Terrain. I’m fucking hilarious. _

I also found Pathfinder_ . _ No big deal. The things that matter is Sir Rocky Terrain and little wittle Sojourner. I took some pictures before I destroyed anything. You’ll look better when we get home, kay?

Now I forgot how heavy it could be. And I was going to get it on the roof in the first place. And a ramp. Oh, cut me some slack, I was abandoned on Mars, I think I have a right to be a little forgetful!

Now I have to build a ramp with rocks and sand. Like an Egyptian, I’ll build up a masterpiece of architectural art.

**Log Entry: Sol 81 (2)**

Yeah, definitely a work of art.

I can see the ridiculous in the details and when you tilt your head, it looks pathetic.

Eh. Could be worse.

**Log Entry: Sol 93**

Honey, I’m home! How were the potatoes?

Absolute angles. They didn’t do much but sit around this green flag.

Aww! My precious babies! I brought you a friend… Sojo!

…

Don’t judge me.

I’m taking a little break before fixing Pathfinder. Being cramped up in the rover wasn’t fun. Curling up in my fort and watching TV seems nice. Or maybe some decent sleep. Popcorn sounds good too but alas… no such thing.

I think the first thing I want to do when I get home would be to watch a movie. I can have some chocolate popcorn with m&m’s. Just buttloads of chocolate actually. So sweet.

Dove chocolate tastes better than Dove soap. It’s weird. They should make their soap taste like chocolate. Drown yourself in chocolate and shine all the while.

IT WAS A DARE, STOP JUDGING ME, I CAN FEEL YOUR JUDGEMENT!!!

Sleepytime now. I’m exhausted. Goodnight, random techie!

**Log Entry: Sol 94**

Sojo is so tiny and cute. It’s like a little lost puppy! Aww, cuteness overload. Send help, I’ve died.

I’ve started to fix Pathfinder. Just gotta fix a few things and I’ll get a connection.

**Log Entry: Sol 96**

Everything should be working now. I triple checked and everything seems fine on this end of the wire. Soon, I’ll be getting home.

**Log Entry: Sol 97**

Hello? Anyone there? Pick up the phooonnnnneeee, NASA.

**Log Entry: Sol 100**

I must have missed something. They wouldn’t just… ignore me. Would they?

I mean, they are pretty big assholes sometimes and the press would be a bitch but…. Would it really be that bad that they wouldn’t want to…?

**Log Entry: Sol 105**

Come on, NASA. Answer me. Because that’s BULLSHIT!!! MY LIFE IS WORTH LESS THAN THE FUCKING PRESS?!?! WHAT KIND OF_ BULLSHIT IS THAT??? YOU BETTER COME GET ME, MOTHERFUCKERS!!! I DID SO MUCH WORK JUST TO CONTACT YOU! _ ** _I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU DON’T ANSWER-- DON’T LAUGH AT ME, NASA! STOP LAUGHING AT ME, MARS!!!_ **

**Log Entry: Sol 107**

I tore my fort down. I spent the day putting it back up again.

It’s a little hard to speak. My throat and lips feel dry. I’m really tired, even though I slept for a while.

I’m not crying.

I’m not, I’m fine.

It's just everything's a little blurry. It’s just really hard to think right now. And eat. And get out of bed. The Morphine needle is over on the table. I’m too tired to get up and get it.

I should start planning on getting to Schiaparelli so I could give NASA a big fuck you present. That sounds nice.

**Log Entry: Sol 108**

I thought of something else that could kill me.

The sun. The radiation it has could rewrite my DNA or give me cancer. And a wicked sunburn. Since I don’t have a great atmosphere like _ Earth _does. I’ll make a dirt shield. Maybe a grave while I’m at it. I just want to disappear. I’m already dead, might as well make it official.

Not yet though, I’m too tired.

**Log Entry: Sol 110**

This was stupid.

This whole thing is stupid actually. The shield, Pathfinder, the potatoes.

Stupid to think this would work.

I’m so fucking stupid.

**Log Entry: Sol 111**

I spent today playing video games. Trying to distract myself from screaming again. It sounds really loud and pathetic. That’s what a part of me says anyway but I don’t care. It’s just the way it echos afterword.

Alone again.

Maybe not though. I think the coffee cups moved. It wasn’t me. I can imagine Beck pointing at his journals and books, saying “Watney, this is a symptom of insanity.”

Whatever.

**Log Entry: Sol 115**

I dug up my potatoes again. It was about time to harvest them and they look fine, not at all sentient, unfortunately. I’m still setting one aside.

They’re growing better than I thought they would. Except for Watney Jr. His potatoes don’t look as good. At least I’m not screwing up alone.

Pathfinder isn’t moving. I want to tear it apart like I did my fort. I have new spare parts now.

I also hurt my hands. Definitely bruised. Part of me wishes the damage was worse.

I’ve started to make a braid made out of wires. I may not know how to put hair up but I do know how to make string tie together in a pattern. Somewhat. It may hurt my hands but who cares? I’m dead!

It could be a really long flag, a belt, a neckless, a noose. Not sure what I’ll do with it yet.

I miss you guys…. Someone come get me. Please.

* * *

Jouska (n.) A hypothetical conversation that you compulsively play out in your head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again. It's been a busy month, homework and all that jazz. At least it's only 6 days instead of 3 weeks, right? I'm updating this without editing it so sorry if it seems weird. I'll edit it later. Comment if you find something I should change. I did edit some of the other chapters, just some grammar mistakes(not all) and a part of the notes.  
I hope you enjoyed it and have a wonderful life. I'll see you next chapter, whenever that may be.
> 
> And this is going to be self-indulgent. The Dove chocolate and soap? Actual conversation between me and my friend.
> 
> Good night(or day) darlings!


	4. Body Pillow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some VERY serious stuff from here on out so please take care of yourself and check the tags. I don't want to hurt anyone or for anyone to hurt themselves. I love you!!

Saudade (n.) A deep melancholy or nostalgia felt when yearning for something- or someone- who is not there.

* * *

**Entry Log: Sol 173**

Wow.

It’s been a while since I updated a log.

Sorry. My internal clock is fucked-up and I haven’t been feeling myself.

I almost finished my little wire project. Isn’t it so weird how we have bones under our hands? How this is my body and I am the one moving my hands. I feel hollow. I feel like crying. I feel like bashing my skull open with one of the coffee cups. Everything seems too overwhelming but the opposite at the same time, ya know? I have feelings but it’s to the left. Do I…

**Entry Log: Sol 174**

Wait.

I did a log yesterday?

And I didn’t finish it?

But… I remember finishing it.

What was I going to say?

**Entry Log: Sol 177**

I want to go home.

I miss Mom and Dad and Martinez and Lewis and Vogel and Beck and Johanssen and food that isn’t rationed and food that isn’t potatoes and playing games with everyone and clean air and the sun and people and my bed and hugs and physical touche and **home** and dirt.

Surprising. I miss the dirt. But not the Martian dirt in the too big Hab (when has it been this big?) but earth dirt. The kind after a rainy day, the kind filled with worms and just sorta gives under your feet. Where everything smells fresh and new.

Did you know that the reason it smells so nice is because the rain kinda clears the atmosphere out of bacteria or something? That’s the true smell of the earth.

I want to go home. I want someone to touch me and remind me I’m real.

**Entry Log: Sol 177(2)**

I taped 3 pillows together.

It feels nice. Like a real person.

I think I’ll finally get some sleep tonight.

**Audio Log: Sol 178**

“..._ it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, _ ** _Where is everyone?_ ** _ , no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, no one’s here, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real…” _

**Log Entry: Sol 181**

I’m in my fort. I’ve been here for the past day. I keep seeing shadows against the sheets. Some look like the people I love and others have claws.

I think I must look like a little freak, hiding from monsters that aren’t there.

Funny. I’m suicidal but the thought of being killed paralyzes me. Is it because I want my death to be mine? I decide when and how I die.

The morphine is outside though. With the imaginary monsters.

Maybe they’ll go away if I...

Go away, go away, go away...

**Log Entry: Sol 182**

Hunger forced me to leave safety.

I kept seeing the shadows. I kept expecting one of them to pop up out of nowhere, a jumpscare from a horror movie. Nothing happened.

My mind imagines what the shadows would look like, how they would kill me.

I’m so scared.

**Log Entry: Sol 191**

The shadows went away. I finished my wire braid.

I lined the potato rows with them. They kinda look like those lights on airplane lanes with the colors blurring together. Red, blue, green, yellow.

I remember going to visit Grandma and Grandpa. I’d always ask for the window seat and if it was dark enough, watch as the lights passed.

Red, blue, green, yellow.

I wish I could fly home.

**Log Entry: Sol 200**

I caved and read Beck’s texts.

Not for me, of course. Just asking for a friend and I was bored, so… Look at me being helpful.

There’s a little information on everything. Treating complex wounds, the importance of vitamins and not starving, effects of sleep deprivation. Lucky for me, there’s an entire section on isolation and how it can fuck you up. The effects include but are not limited to, hypersensitivity to external stimuli, hallucinations, anxiety, panic attacks, memory deficiencies, concentration issues, paranoia, aggression and impulse control, among other physical problems.

Well, my friend must be screwed.

There aren’t any suggestions on how to combat symptoms of a solitary life. More of a “hey, did you know…?” Kinda thing.

I don’t know what to do anymore. I think I’ll play some more video games.

**Log Entry: Sol 204**

I’m missing things again and I have to ignore them.

The water reclaimer has been acting up and that was a problem I was trying to ignore but I have bigger things to ignore right now.

I’m going to take it apart, right after I finish this log.

Really, I am.

No, I’m not scared of accidentally breaking something, I’m an engineer, I can fix anything.

It’s just work, you know? It’s like homework, you may not want to do it and you may do a lot of other things before doing homework but in the end, you’ll have to do it because you can’t just survive on coffee and potatoes, you need water.

So I’m going to go now.

Right now.

Okay, now.

**Log Entry: Sol 204(2)**

Everything’s good so far, it was just dirt.

I have laid everything down in its exact place and now I just need to put it back together.

Together is a weird word. To-get-her. To get her. And when you put them all together- what’s this? Together!

Together like a little hug. That friends would share. That family would share. A word that I can’t use to describe myself in relation to…

My desk is cluttered and messy, I need to clean it. I’ll fix the water reclaimer later.

**Log Entry: Sol 210**

I need someone here.

Someone to hug me. Someone to hug.

The pillows too soft.

**Log Entry: Sol 217**

I got some sleep.

It wasn’t as fun as it sounds.

I had a nightmare.

It started at home. I was around 8 and was sitting in bed. There was a plate of cinnamon waffles, my favorite. I took a bite but it didn’t taste like how I remember. It was dusty like the Mars dirt.

Then… Sorry, I just really don’t want to write this.

Get it together, Watney.

Then everything went black.

Something did something but all I know was that I was suffocating and scratching and trying to get the pillow off. I was choking on dust and vomit and it felt so _ weird. _ It was wet and dry but I couldn’t do anything and I realized I was going to die.

I couldn’t do anything and I did die.

It was so dark and it felt so real. I was panicking but then _ I was just gone and that _ ** _scares me._ **

That I could be gone and no one would care. No one would notice.

I don’t want to die.

I don’t want to sleep again.

But it’s past my bedtime again. I can’t miss another night of sleep.

Besides it was just a dream, it can’t really happen.

I’m keeping my pillow in one of the cupboards still. Just in case.

**Log Entry: Sol 223**

Nothing much is happening anymore.

**Log Entry: Sol 231**

Hey, do you think that…………… NASA haz made anymore discoveries? …………….. Like, I knwo wev’e still been tring to get under the oceaan. I think,,,,,,, Maybe there’s a creture that look all cute and stuff like a baby occtopus. Maybe a seahorse!!

A cross…………. It’ll glow blue and white,,,,,,,,, maybe have 8 tails or something? Like a propelllllller! I think I’ll call it Raza, the baby draaaaagon of the sea. Raza could collect shells maybe. Decoreate a rock and set itself on top of a royal throne of moss and exoskeleteens…..

Here’s to Raza the Dragon! And to leerning something knew……..

**Log Entry: Sol 232**

How high was I yesterday?

I mean, Raza the Dragon? What the fuck?

It’s cute but, once again, what the fuck?

I also don’t have that good spelling.

**Log Entry: Sol 300**

I know it doesn’t seem like I’ve been keeping these up BUT!!!

I didn’t feel like writing then. I know I was scared of touching the Morphine again but… I’ve gotten over that.

Did you know we are all made of stardust? It flows in our blood. That reminds me, I need to clean up. I can feel the blood drying on the hairs of my arms and it isn’t nice. It’s rather sticky.

How high are you?

I don’t know. I don’t remember the last time I measured myself.

I’m getting sleepy. Drugs work a lot faster on an empty stomach.

Goodnight!!!

**Log Entry: Sol 301**

I think I’m still alive.

It feels like I’m dreaming.

I don’t think I cut deep enough.

…

…

…

The sun’s setting again.

Another sol, another day.

One I won’t remember again.

  
  
  


**Log Entry: Sol 309**

_ To whom it may concern, _

_ I have thrown this letter into the stars that ripple along the floor. I have locked this in a chest with coffee-stained cups and a stream of colored wires. I have done this so my story could be told, maybe tomorrow or in a thousand years. _

_ If you find this, I hope you’ve found this buried in the mud. I hope you’ve found this where the corpse of my words have started to rot. I hope you’ve found this. _

_ And if you haven’t... Then I guess this was all for nothing. And I’m going to be forgotten. _

_ Sorry about the tear stains. _

_ I hope you’ll find my soul in this. I hope you’ll mourn me. I hope you’ll tell the story of a dead man. _

_ From, the man who forgot his name. _

**Log Entry: Sol 312**

_ What the FUCK is going on? I don’t understand, I just found this in the cupboard so what the fuck happened to me and where did I go and am I going to lose myself again and god can someone just come and off me, that would be... _

**Log Entry: Sol 335**

I’ve been playing a lot of video games lately.

I’ve beaten a lot of them. I should make my own. It should be easy enough. Better than doing nothing.

**Log Entry: Sol 248**

What if we left earlier? The storm was getting worse, we could have left earlier. We could have all made it. I could have been flying home.

What if we left a little too late? We would have had problems with food and stuff but I wouldn’t have been alone and we could have figured something out.

What if the storm didn’t happen at all? What if we went did the mission another time? What if someone else was stuck with me? What if it was someone else left behind? What if we all got hurt and died? Am I being too selfish for wanting the crew to be stranded here too? I should be glad it’s not worse but I don’t feel good, I feel like trash and throw up. It could be so much worse and here I am, wishing it was worse. I should be glad I’m alive, that I get to live and a chance to get through this. But I’m not.

Does that make me bad?

I think it does.

**Log Entry: Sol 279**

I need to eat this potato.

I don’t want to but I need to.

Eat the potato, Watney.

Eat it.

…

Do we have ketchup somewhere?

I’ll only eat if we have ketchup.

…

FOUND SOME!!!

Ah, flavor, how I’ve missed you!

**Log Entry: Sol 299**

I’ve made the first-ever Martain game! And I for some reason decided to make disco music as the background. Blame the high, nostalgic me.

But it’s cool. I made this. Yeah, there was a lot of panic attacks at the beginning and it’s hard to breathe, but that’s alright.

In the game, I can kill myself as many times as I want. Or survive. That would be a better option, wouldn’t it? _ (wouldn’t it?) _

  
  


**Log Entry: Sol 319**

There’s another storm and the shadows came back. It’s so stupid because I know that everything is fine, the storm isn’t even that bad and I’m just imagining the shadows with their sharp claws and teeth just waiting for me to leave my fort and kill me and I’m so stupid for crying but I can’t stop and I hate myself a lot.

Stop flinching…

**Log Entry: Sol 321**

I just realized this.

My name is Mark Watney. That’s my name. It’s mine.

I don’t recognize it that well.

Like, I look in the mirror but I just can’t see me there. It’s someone else.

Am I even real? I feel like an imposter. That Mark Watney died and I took his place.

So if I’m not Mark Watney, who am I?

…

**Log Entry: Sol 333**

So I forgot my name. That’s nice to know. Just, ignore this entry, please?

_ My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney. My name is Mark Watney……… _

  
  
  


**Log Entry: Sol 340**

I think I have a name for when I’m not feeling like myself.

Mort. It’s close to ‘Mark’ but not really.

So, I guess we should formally meet.

Hi, my name is Mort.

It feels weird to say and think about.

**Log Entry: Sol 346**

I don’t know what came over me.

I just ate 2 rations and 5 potatoes. Then I threw up.

I don’t trust myself with food anymore.

Do you think I should lock the sharp metals away too?

**Log Entry: Sol 351**

I need scissors.

I just need to cut my hair, nothing else.

Really, I’m telling the truth. Don’t you trust me, Mark?

Not really, Mort.

**Log Entry: Sol 357**

Alright, so, imagine.

I’m back home, right?

I’ve started a big garden. Marigolds, Roses, Tomatoes, Peas, Baby’s Breath, Cockscombs, Goldenrod, Peonies, everything that comes in seeds or is grown in dirt. Except for potatoes.

Everything would be in its own space. Realistically, I wouldn’t have the room for it or the supplies to keep _ everything _alive but it’s nice. Just rows and bunches of the same plant, the same color. Everything lines up and grows beautifully. It’s perfect.

And in my house, there is no trace of dirt on the floor. Everything is clean and neat and there is more food in the pantry, lining up perfectly. Everything in order and nothing can go wrong.

What a lovely daydream.

**Log Entry: Sol 362**

I have drawings on my arm.

I have a lot of stuff on my arms. Dirt, blood, old scars, new scars, drug scars, nail imprints.

But I never thought I would draw on my arm.

Some are shitty and some are crossed out. I forgot what I was trying to draw exactly.

Some are just lines and shapes and numbers.

I remember someone telling me to not draw on my arms when I was younger. I don’t know who but I remember it being said. I think it could have been Mom. (What does she look like now? I only have some pictures and death can do a lot to a person’s physical expression, I mean, look at me.)

It’s nice.

I think I’ll draw some more.

**Log Entry: Sol 368**

The sky is blue.

The sky was blue and I forgot how much I missed that.

I forgot that the sky did that and that that was how it was on earth.

My favorite color is blue now.

I think we have a blue sharpie somewhere and I think I’m going to…

**Log Entry: Sol 374**

I didn’t finish my thought again.

It’s weird. I keep jumping back and forth between too much and not enough. Remembering everything and forgetting everything. Drowning in emotion and not feeling a thing.

You know, I actually spend around an hour writing down the usual log entries that are complete. I keep saying what I’m writing out loud and sometimes I forget to move my hands and not just my mouth.

The whole point of these logs is to see if anyone would find these and read what really happened to me. How can that happen if I don’t fucking write what I want to write? If I don’t write what happens to me? Even though, there’s _ nothing _going on.

Because what’s the point of _ anything _anymore? Of everything?

Nothing.

I want to die.

Shut up, Vogel. Like you wouldn’t feel the same in my situation.

**Log Entry: Sol 390**

Why the fuck are you like this?

I just wanted to fucking get through this, which means I need to fucking eat.

So why the fuck can’t you hold down a potato? I don’t care if you hate the taste, you’re being ridiculous, Mort. You need to live for…

**Log Entry: Sol 390(2)**

.... For what?

**Log Entry: Sol 400**

You know what, fuck you.

Fuck you and fuck Mars and fuck NASA and fuck the potatoes but mostly fuck you.

If Mars is going to kill you, well it better start to try harder. If NASA is going to leave you behind than give them a big fuck you present and live in spite of them. If the potatoes taste disgusting because they don’t want you to eat than eat them for another big fuck you.

We’re going to do this. Just to feel real dirt again and taste something other than bile and to touch something that is breathing. We’re going to do this.

**Log Entry: 401**

What if we can’t though?

  
  


* * *

Escapism (n.) the tendency to escape from daily reality or routine by indulging in daydream or fantasy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not really happy about this. It's just. I haven't exactly been feeling myself and I've started to question a lot about myself. But I hope you enjoyed. Um. yeah. Goodnight, or good morning, wherever you are. And tell me what you think because constructive criticism is more than welcome. I love you and I hope you are taking care of yourself.  
Which means getting yourself a glass of water and eating something. And do your work!  
I'll be disappointed if you haven't done at least one of these things.  
Until the next update! See ya!  
*finger guns*


End file.
